


A Certain Approach

by orphan_account



Series: The Buried Life [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom!Sherlock, F/M, Johnlockary - Freeform, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Really Just Porn, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:11:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No sex while a case was on. No touching, no kissing, no sleeping in the same bed. Mary knew the rules but had still felt a bit let down, as John had enticed her into coming along by telling her it would be “a quick case, just a teenager being dramatic, then we’ll have a nice minibreak out in the country,” and so far every meal had come in a cardboard box and there had been no sex whatsoever.</p><p>But now they had solved the case. They had solved the case, and they had another full night in a lovely luxurious country inn.</p><p>Oh. <em>Oh.</em></p><p>***<br/>Or: John, Mary and Sherlock Have Sex in a Hotel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Certain Approach

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: SO I MADE A TUMBLR: 
> 
>  
> 
> [Caitlin Writes Sherlock](http://caitlinwritessherlock.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Follow me for updates, random thoughts and lots of reblogging pictures of Benedict Cumberbatch.
> 
>  
> 
> This is pure OT3 porn. 4300 words of hot threeway action.
> 
> This can be read as a follow-up to The Buried Life, but if you're just here for the porn you don't need to have read that first. Though there is quite a bit of porn in that too. If that's your thing. Which it must be, if you're still reading.
> 
> Though, just for kicks, the little bit of case this is wrapped up in is lifted from the ACD story "The Copper Beeches." But, just a reminder: porn.
> 
> Set in an AU where Mary is still a nice person and not a horrible murdering murderer who's destroying John's soul by inches. Not that I'm bitter or anything.
> 
> Feedback always welcome. Personal correspondence can be sent to CaitlinFairchild1976@gmail.com.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!  
> 

Mary was woken from her nap by the soft click of the closing door. She stretched and yawned, then gasped a bit when Sherlock leaned in to press a kiss to her temple. His lips and nose were cold from the chilly early-spring evening, and the cigarette he had snuck on the walk back to the hotel still clung to his breath.

“Ooh, you’re freezing,” she breathed with a bit of a giggle, curling deeper into the fluffy pillows and pulling the luxurious comforter tighter around herself. “Did you solve the case, then?”

“They were using the nanny as a decoy for the imprisoned stepdaughter,” Sherlock informed her.

“Mmm,” she replied absently, still half-immersed in her nap. “That’s what Craigslist will get you, I guess. Where’s John?”

“The stepfather was badly bitten by the vicious dog he unleashed on us. John is tending to his wounds before the police take him into custody.”

That brought Mary out of her sleepy daze. “Oh! You and John are alright, though?” She sat up, concerned.

“We’re just fine,” Sherlock said, smiling at her as he stroked the side of her face with his slender fingers. “We reunited the young lady and her fiance, and her stepfather will be going to prison, so...the case…” he said, bringing his cold lips down to graze her jaw, “is…” he placed a kiss along her neck, “...solved,” he finished, sucking lightly at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

Sherlock pulled back and gave her a meaningful gaze, smile still ghosting his lips. Mary came fully awake and looked at him, at his tangled curls and flushed cheeks and pale eyes gone dark with intent.

No sex while a case was on. No touching, no kissing, no sleeping in the same bed. Mary knew the rules but had still felt a bit let down, as John had enticed her into coming along by telling her it would be “a quick case, just a teenager being dramatic, then we’ll have a nice minibreak out in the country,” and so far every meal had come in a cardboard box and there had been no sex whatsoever.

But now they had solved the case. They had solved the case, and they had another full night in a lovely luxurious country inn.

Oh. _Oh._

Mary smiled, finally understanding his meaning. “And John’s on his way, you said?”

“He’ll be along in about twenty minutes. He told me to come up and make sure you were...comfortable.”

“Isn’t he a thoughtful one?” Mary said teasingly. She brought up a hand to tangle in Sherlock’s windblown curls and tugged his mouth down to hers for a kiss. His lips were chilled, his tongue warm. He tasted of tea and cigarette smoke and that undefinable something else that made him utterly delicious. Her arousal spiked instantly. Not that it took a lot, in the second trimester. One glance at John’s arse in her favorite pair of dark rinse jeans or a glimpse of Sherlock’s pale flat belly peeking out under a hiked-up tee shirt and she was instantly, almost painfully horny.

Keeping her satisfied these days was definitely a job for two men, and the case had been on for days and she was so needy and desirous it was a physical ache.

“Go take a hot shower, then. You’re freezing and you smell like musty old attic.”

He grinned at her, shrugged off the greatcoat and laid it over the back of the wing chair, and began to strip, not exactly slowly but definitely a bit for her benefit. Shirt and trousers gone, he shimmied out of his dark gray boxer briefs, dusky pink erection springing free from its restraint, and Mary couldn’t help but lick her lips.

“Stop teasing me, you evil man. Go shower and get back in here.”

He turned and positively sauntered into the ensuite, Mary admiring the rear view even more if that was possible.

“Brush your teeth!” she called after Sherlock as he shut the door.

Mary found she was literally shivering with anticipation. She quickly shoved the blanket aside and stood, only a bit ungainly at this point in her pregnancy, and pulled off her t-shirt and knickers before sliding back into the warm bedclothes.

_John told me,_ Sherlock had said.

The unconventional emotional and physical relationship between the three of them had a few definite but unstated rules. The most important one covered the spheres of influence delegated to each of them.

At home, when it came to the flat or what was on telly or paying bills or what constituted a reasonable dinner, Mary was in charge. (Heteronormative and gender-role conformist as it may be, yes, and that was fine with Mary. She spent a lifetime defying those kinds of roles, being a murderous agent with no identity and no home, and now that she had a second chance, she chose to be a nurse and a homemaker and the kind of woman who baked bread and put things in scrapbooks. And that is _fine,_ it is her choice, and if it stops being fine, well, she’ll change the rules again, won’t she?) And her boys go along with it, mainly because she’s right and also because it saves them the trouble and she’s better at it, and it works.

Sherlock Holmes was in charge of everything that went on on the world outside 221b. Out there, he was undoubtedly in charge of John Watson. Sherlock Holmes said jump and John Watson, well, jumped. Sherlock commanded and demanded and controlled everything around him and John followed him, fetched for him, defended him, and Mary trailed along behind the two of them, seeming like a third wheel but actually making everything better, sharper, making it easier for Sherlock and John to do what needed to be done. Out there, everyone believed Sherlock Holmes was the one in charge. And that was perfectly all right.

But here’s what no one knew: in their bedroom, in the big king bed that almost filled the entire upstairs room... in that small but critical sphere, away from all eyes save their own, Captain John Watson was entirely, undeniably the one in charge. And none of them would have it any other way.

John loved to tell them what to do, to watch them submit completely to his orders. He loved to decide who did what, who gave, who received. He loved to arrange their pliant limbs, loved to hear them ask for what they wanted, loved to deny or grant them pleasure as he wished. It was beautiful and it was perfect and Mary was shocked at how well it worked. She had always enjoyed John’s dominant nature but it had surprised her, at first, how completely Sherlock surrendered himself to John’s desires. Upon reflection, though, it made perfect sense. Sherlock was so overly attuned to every shred of data, so assailed by a million passing thoughts every moment, Mary quickly came to see how giving himself over in perfect devotion to John in their tiny private world was a way of removing himself from the demands of his brain, from the demands of being Sherlock Holmes and all the expectations placed on him, to give the reins over completely and allow himself to be cared for. 

That need to let go, to turn it all off...it had been the reason, before, for the drugs. But this...this was something so good for him. This was safety and caring and love.

Mary had become so lost in thinking about the intricacies of their relationship that she was almost asleep again when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom and slid into bed behind her, warm and damp and smelling of expensive soap. He was always so keyed up after a case, wound up and overstimulated and so desperate for contact it made the abstinence during a case almost worthwhile. His impressive erection pressed up against the cleft of her buttocks, and she sighed as he pulled her tight against him and ground slowly against her.

“What did John tell you?” she murmured.

“I’m to fuck you as slowly as I can,” Sherlock said softly, pressing his insistent cock into her backside. Sherlock almost never cursed outside of bed, and the sound of his gorgeous voice saying desperate, dirty things was an unbelievable turn-on for all three of them. Mary whimpered a bit, angling herself up against him as he took himself in hand and pushed just the tip of himself into her. “I’m supposed to make you come, but I’m not allowed to come yet. He told me to make--” He slid deeper and huffed out a breath-- “you feel good. Oh, God. You’re so wet.” His pushed deeply into her, with agonizing delicious slowness. “Oh, God. _Fuck._ "

“Oh, yes,” Mary gasped, reaching behind her to pull his hips into her, encouraging him to go harder, deeper. Already her orgasm was building inside her belly, she was so goddamn sensitive--“You feel so good inside me. More, Jesus, more.”

His hips snapped hard against her of their own accord, once, twice, three times in a mindless, animalistic search for friction. Sherlock stilled himself, regaining control, biting gently into the skin of her shoulder blade and moaning softly in frustration. Breathing hard, he set an agonizingly slow pace, teasing her with the slow wet slide of his hard flesh. He reached across her, below the swell of her belly, and found her clit with his long talented fingers, circling and stroking that aching nub of flesh. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, yes.” She panted, grinding down onto him, making him gasp, and then without warning she was coming, hard and fast, a fierce bright orgasm that made her cry out sharply. He took his fingers away from her folds and stilled her, his hand clamping down on his hip. He breathed deep.

“Hydrogen. Helium. Lithium. Beryllium. Boron. Carbon…” Sherlock trailed off, panting.

Mary couldn’t stifle the giggle. “The periodic table?”

“I don’t know anything about sport,” he murmured, pulled back from the brink of his orgasm. She could feel Sherlock smiling against her skin as he kissed the back of her neck and resumed his slow thrusting. The fullness of his cock inside her sensitive walls felt exquisite, easing the constant hot pull of her insatiable, hormone-fueled need. The two of them floated like that, wrapped in a cocoon of gentle friction and pleasure, for what seemed an eternity. 

Then the key card mechanism of the door whirred with a soft click, and Mary heard John slip quietly into the room. He shrugged off his jacket and crossed to where the pair lay, kissing Sherlock deeply and then Mary, sliding his tongue against hers.

“How’s he doing, sweetheart?” John asked.

“Wonderful,” she purred. “He’s being ever so good.”

“Did he make you come yet?”

“Once.”

“Can you give her one more like this?” he asked Sherlock.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said, the note of submission already coloring his voice. They didn’t play games, they didn’t have safewords or convoluted scenes. Just “Yes, John,” and “No, John” in that quiet, compliant tone of pure devotion to his will.

“Perfect.” John kissed Sherlock again. “I love when you listen so well.” That was part of it too. Sherlock craved the praise they both heaped on him, thrived on it, loved to be told how wonderful and beautiful and good he was. It almost broke Mary’s heart, a little, thinking of how starved Sherlock had been for love and approval before them.

John pulled his jumper over his head and tossed it over Sherlock’s coat on the back of the chair.

“I’ll be right back.” John disappeared into the bathroom, and Sherlock’s thrusts intensified slightly, his tongue running along the curve of her shoulder. His hand came up to her breast, thumb gently circling the nipple.

“This okay?” He asked, knowing how oversensitive her breasts could be.

“It’s amazing. You’re amazing.” She pushed back against his thrusts, felt the pleasure building in her again, it was unbelievable--

“Forty percent of women become multiorgasmic during pregnancy,” Sherlock murmured. “Lucky you.”

“It almost makes up for everything else,” she chuckled. “Tired, bloated, crabby, fat…”

“Statistically, your weight gain is within acceptable parameters.”

“Is that Sherlock-speak for ‘Darling, you’re not fat’?”

“Darling, you’re not fat,” Sherlock said softly, as his cock moved more insistently inside her. “You’re soft and warm and beautiful.” Mary sighed at the gentle words, even more treasured for being seldom heard. 

“Touch yourself for me,” Sherlock murmured. “I want to feel you come around me again. It’s amazing.”

Her fingers slid in between her legs and she stroked, finding herself close to the edge within moments. John came out of the shower, toweling off his hair, naked cock jutting out proudly between his legs. He pulled something out of the travel bag by the fireplace, then dropped the towel, set the packet of lube on the opposite bedside table, and knelt at the edge of the bed, watching them.

“I love watching him fuck you,” he said. “You’re both so gorgeous like this, and you’re both mine.” He pulled at his cock as he watched them, long firm slow strokes. “Come for us, sweet girl.”

At his words Mary came with a choked cry, her body erupting into showering sparks of pleasure as she spasmed and contracted around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock exhaled raggedly with the effort of keeping himself from following her over the edge. 

"You're not allowed to come yet, Sherlock," John reminded him, gentle but firm. Sherlock just nodded, breathing hard, eyes closed. 

"Lie back on the bed, love. I want to see your gorgeous cock."

Sherlock obeyed, pulling out of Mary's warmth with a whimper.“Oh, fuck,” he panted, laying on his back, his erect cock wet and glistening in the low light. “Oh, _fuck_.” 

John climbed into bed, sliding strong fingers into Sherlock’s hair and kissing him deeply. “God, Sherlock. look at you. You’re gorgeous. You want to come, don’t you?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said raggedly.

“I know you do, love,” he said, running his fingertips along the sweat-slick flesh of Sherlock’s chest, thumb circling a pink nipple, making Sherlock writhe and gasp. “Soon I’ll reward you for making Mary feel so good, I promise. Soon. But you have to wait until I say so. Can you wait, Sherlock?”

Sherlock whimpered, almost a sob. “Yes, John.”

“That’s my angel.” John’s eyes flicked up to Mary. "You’re doing okay, sweetheart?”

Mary stretched and smiled. “I’m wonderful. You take care of him now.”

John smiled at her, his blue eyes dark with lust. He picked up the lube from the bedside table. “Knees up, feet flat on the bed,” he directed Sherlock. Sherlock complied, his hard length stiff against his belly as he moved. John positioned himself between Sherlock’s thighs, popping the cap off the lube and slicking the fingers of his right hand.

“Do you want me to touch you, Sherlock?” John asked him. 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock breathed.

“Then ask me for it,” John said. “Ask me for what you want.”

“I want you to touch me. I want you to put your fingers inside of me,” Sherlock whimpered, his ragged voice cracking with need. “Please, John. Please.”

“All right, darling,” John said, bending to kiss the crest of Sherlock’s hip as his fingers slipped behind his balls, teasing his perineum. Sherlock lifted his hips off the bed, moaning as he spread his legs wider, desperately seeking contact.

“I love the noises you make,” John murmured, sliding a finger into Sherlock’s hole, making him gasp. “Yes, that’s it. Let me hear you.” He worked his finger deeper, seeking out his prostate, rewarded with a sharp gasp of pleasure when he brushed over it.

Mary watched them, transfixed by the filthy, wanton beauty of the two men together. She would never tire of them, of John’s ragged breathing as he gave Sherlock pleasure, of Sherlock’s breathy needy sounds as John stretched him, readied him. Mary brought herself up on all fours and kissed Sherlock, swallowing down his sounds of pleasure as his tongue plundered her mouth in rhythm with John’s insistent, clever fingers. Sherlock broke away from the kiss with a gasping moan.

“Please….” he rasped. “Please, John.”

“Ask me,” John said. “Beg me.”

“Please fuck me,” Sherlock sobbed with need. “I need you inside me, I need you to fuck me, I need you to make me come, I’ll die if you don’t. Please, John.”

John stilled and withdrew his fingers. “Shh, darling. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of both of you.” He hurriedly piled pillows against the headboard and lay back against them, partially sitting upright, guiding Sherlock to roll on top of him. He kissed Sherlock leisurely. 

“Turn around,” John said. “We’re going to do this in reverse.”

Sherlock turned himself around, in a jumble of elbows and knees, as John slicked himself up liberally. “Raise yourself up,” he said, parting Sherlock’s cheeks and lining himself up with his opening. Sherlock slowly sank down on John’s cock, hoarse moans torn out of his throat with every inch he took.

“So good. So, so good,” John murmured. “You feel amazing wrapped around me.” John’s hands gripped Sherlock’s hips and pulled his body flush against his pelvis. “I love taking you like this, watching your perfect arse as I fill you up. Does it feel good, love?”

Sherlock groaned and nodded. John grabbed his hips and ground against him, causing Sherlock to bark out a sharp, bitten-off cry.

“Use your words, Sherlock. Tell me how it feels when I fuck you.”

“It hurts,” panted Sherlock, “but it feels so good, so full, so tight, oh God, please, more…”

“You want more,” John said, “Take more. Let me see you fuck yourself on me.”

Sherlock raised himself up, almost fully off John’s cock, and lowered himself again, bracing his hands against John’s knees for leverage. He began fucking himself in earnest up and down in long strokes on John’s cock, needy gasping cries pouring from his slack and blissful mouth.

“Jesus God _fuck_ , yes,” John panted, sweaty and debauched, flush with desire. He looked at Mary through heavy-lidded eyes and smiled at her, slow and dark. 

“Enjoying the show, love?”

“Oh God, yes.” Mary said, kissing him.

“Time to help out, then. I want you to suck him off while I’m fucking him.”

“Yes, John,” Mary murmured obediently, shifting herself downward on the bed. John stilled Sherlock’s frantic thrusts so Mary could straddle John’s lower legs. Mary placed her hands on either side of Sherlock’s beautiful face, wrecked with need. Sherlock’s eyes were shut tight, his breath in ragged gasps. His cock was almost purple, precome leaking freely from the slit.

“Sherlock, do you want my wife to suck your cock?”

“Yes, John.”

“Then ask her. Ask her to suck your hard cock.”

“Yes. Please, Mary, Please, suck my cock, I’m so hard, I need you.”

Mary wrapped her lips around him, swallowed him down, making him convulse with pleasure. She sucked him down to the root, establishing a slow but firm rhythm as John began to thrust again into Sherlock’s body. 

“Pull her hair, Sherlock, she likes it when you show her what you want. Show her.”

Sherlock’s hand entwined itself in her hair, gentle at first, but then growing more demanding as the needs of his body overrode him. He pulled her hair, setting the rhythm between her mouth and John’s cock, moving in coordination with Sherlock’s body as the conduit between them, his ragged cries increasing as his pleasure wound tighter and tighter. John moaned low in his throat, his fingers curled against the pale skin of Sherlock’s pelvic crest.

“John,” Sherlock begged, “Please let me come, I need to come, please.”

“Ask Mary to let you come on her face, all over her lips and mouth,” John said.

“Let me come on your face, Mary,” Sherlock sobbed brokenly. "Please, I need to. Let me come.”

Mary pulled off him and used her hand to stroke him through. “Yes, Sherlock. Let it go now. Come on me.”

Mary watched Sherlock cry out as he finally reached his climax, an inhuman keening sound, his face utterly wrecked and undone as his semen spurted thick and hot, over and over against her cheeks, her open mouth, her chin. Mary was transfixed by the sight of him, eagerly accepting his obscene and utterly beautiful offering on her lips. 

Sherlock’s body trembled with the aftershocks of orgasm until he sagged, panting and sheened with sweat. Mary gentled her touch and released him, coming up to kiss him, sharing the taste of his own seed with him as he received it eagerly.

“Oh my God,” John gasped. “God. Jesus. The two of you. Filthy creatures. _Fuck_. I’m gonna come so hard, Sherlock, so deep inside you. Fuck, I’m--” His hips snapped forward and stilled as he came, shaking, mouth open, spilling himself deep inside Sherlock’s body with a broken moan. Mary broke away from Sherlock’s mouth to stretch alongside John, kissing him, sharing Sherlock’s essence with him as he rode the crest of his orgasm. John’s tongue swiped at her chin, licking her clean, seeking out Sherlock’s taste as the aftershocks sparked through his body.

The sound of heavy breathing filled the overheated air of the room as the three of them floated down to earth, wrapped in clouds of orgasm-induced endorphins.

With a bit of a pained grunt, Sherlock slid himself up and off John and flopped himself down on the other side of him.

“Nnnnngh," he groaned. "I... I..." Sherlock raised his head up fractionally to look at John and Mary through one half-open eye. "You broke my brain,” he muttered in a half-accusing, half-satisfied way that made Mary laugh.

John chuckled and kissed the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder. “Not broken. Just rebooted. It's good for you, love.”

“So you say,” Sherlock murmured, somewhat more agreeably.

A warm, content silence fell over them for several minutes.

Until Mary realized she had to pee.

“I need a wash,” said Mary. “Anyone coming?”

John giggled, a disarmingly adorable sound. “Thought I just did.”

That gave Sherlock the giggles, too.

Mary huffed a bit, but she was smiling. “Immature, the both of you. How about a wet flannel and a glass of water?”

“Mmm. Sounds good.” John turned his head and kissed her hair. “Love you, wife.”

She found John’s mouth and kissed him back. “Love you too.” She got on her knees and leaned over John to kiss Sherlock. “Love you, gorgeous man.”

“Love you, ” Sherlock murmured against her lips.

Mary reluctantly left the warm bed and made her way to the ensuite, using the toilet (she had already learned about pregnancy UTI’s the hard way), soaping up and rinsing off in the shower, then quickly shampooing her hair. She swiped a toothbrush around her mouth, wet a clean flannel and filled a glass of water for her boys, then made her way back to bed.

Sherlock and John were entangled in each other, sound asleep, Sherlock snoring lightly.

Mary smiled at them, her heart so full of love it felt like it might break entirely in two.

A tiny, fluttering kick stirred in her belly. _Do you love both of them too? You should. You just might be the luckiest baby in the world, little one._

Mary pulled on her tee shirt and knickers and flicked on the telly. She was starving. In a few minutes, she would venture out and try to find Chinese takeaway somewhere in this tiny seaside town. But in this moment, she watched her lovers sleep in each others’ arms, and offered up a silent prayer to anyone up there listening that they could somehow stay like this with each other, forever.

***

Late the next morning, John and Mary were enjoying a leisurely breakfast when Sherlock came bursting into the dining room, Belstaff billowing behind him.

“John! Mary! There you are!” Several other guest’s heads raised at the demanding tones of Sherlock’s voice. ”Why are you dawdling over breakfast when there’s a serial killer terrorizing Southampton?”

“Because...this is the first we’ve heard of it?” John asked, putting his coffee cup down. “As of thirty minutes ago, when we came down here, there was nothing on.”

“Well, there is now!” cried Sherlock imperiously. “The bodies have been _plasticized_ and returned to their homes, posed in their beds. That ranks an eight, at least. Possibly a nine. Come along, we need to leave in ten minutes.”

“Your plastic bodies can wait for a piece of toast, surely?” Mary asked, trying to keep a smile off her lips. Sherlock looked offended.

The other diners looked aghast.

“Ten minutes, I’m leaving. You can come or not.” And he was gone, in a swirl of dark wool and carefully mussed curls.

John placed his napkin on the table. He sighed, but there was no heat behind it. “Well, if Himself demands it, guess I’ll go pack. Take care of the bill, love?”

“Of course,” Mary said, still smiling. John left, dropping an affectionate kiss on the top of her head on his way.

Mary looked around and made eye contact with the waitress. The woman came over to the table, totaling up the bill with a stub of pencil.

“So,” the woman said conversationally. “that’s Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.”

“Um,” Mary said. “Yes.”

“So, he's your husband?”

“Yes, he is.”

“I’m a big fan. Follow all their cases.” She placed the bill on the table.

“Well. I’ll let them know.”

“Seems like a real handful, he does.”

“Sorry?”

“Sherlock Holmes. I mean, he’s handsome and all that, at a certain angle, but all the stories talk about how difficult he is. Rude, demanding. And it certainly seems true. Sherlock Holmes snaps his fingers, and John Watson jumps,” the woman said, shaking her head. “How on earth does your husband put up with him?”

A vision of Sherlock arose in her mind, lean and pale and naked, back arched, eyes closed, his voice gone ragged and dark with need. _Please, John. Please._

Mary smiled at the waitress, the clueless woman who knew nothing of the world of Sherlock Holmes and John and Mary Watson--and never, ever would. 

“Well," she said, "John just has a...certain approach with him, I suppose.”


End file.
